


The Homefront

by cakeisnotpie



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Daddyhawk, F/M, Fix-It, Laura Barton is a BAMF, family fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d known instantly when Clint had come home after New York that things weren’t right. It was their little ritual, the talk of home improvements. Clint always left something hanging, a project to come back to, promising to finish when he got back from a mission. Then the first thing when he arrived, he’d start talking about the next project before the first one was complete. As if the promise meant he’d have to come back safe and sound, because he had work to do.</p>
<p>A quick fic told from Laura's POV in honor of all the military spouses who kiss their partners and watch them walk out the door, knowing they may not come back. Mentions of the Battle of New York and events from Age of Ultron. Spoilers ahead if you haven't seen AOU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Homefront

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, um, I have no idea where this came from. I was in the shower and this thing sprang fully formed in my head. Somehow I managed to get it all down on paper. Written quickly so any mistakes are mine. 
> 
> I'm one of those people who can ship Clint with anyone and I also have the utmost respect for spouses of people who put themselves in harm's way to protect others. So this happened. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> And I got a fix-it in as well. Plus some daddyhawk.

The ache in the small of her back was a constant, a grinding screw working its way into her spine. Her head throbbed each time she bent over, her fingers closing around plastic rectangles and squares with sharp little edges and raised divots that cut into the soft skin of her foot when she stepped on them. Bright primary colors, the legos were scattered across the living room floor, spilling off the rag rug and hiding under the couch. They weren’t supposed to take the purple tub out of the playroom, but Lila going through a phase where “No” meant “Yes” and no matter how many time outs she gave, her daughter dragged the building blocks right back out again.

 

Lucky barrelled through the living room, knocking the coffee table askew as his paws hit the edge of the rug. Mud splattered as paws scrabbled for purchase, courtesy of yesterday’s rains and the road that needed more gravel. Cooper raced behind the dog, shouting “Heigh ho, Silver,” a black mask around his eyes and a white hat on his head. The same mud clung to the knees of his school jeans and dotted the front of his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt as he brandished his hand above his head, twirling a length of rope.

 

“Cooper Bernard Barton!” She called, straightening up to her full height. “How many times do I have to tell you to wipe your feet at the door and not to play in your good clothes.”

 

The brown haired boy careened to a stop, bumping into the overstuffed chair. “Sorry, mom,” he mumbled, head hung low. “I forgot to change.”

 

She tried to work up a good anger, something to fuel her body to keep going, but she couldn’t stay mad at him. He was doing the same thing she was, trying not to remember where his father was and what he was doing, to push the fear away by busying himself with play. “It’s okay, Coop, just don’t do it again. We’re not made of money, you know.” She winced at the trite phrase her parents had used. “Go take those off and put them in the laundry room to be pre-treated. Then you can help me clean the floor and bathe Lucky.”

 

The last perked him up. “Can we do it outside? With the hose?”

 

“Put on your oldest clothes,” she told him, giving in.

 

Thing was, Laura had know exactly what she was getting into when she married Clint Barton. He’d never kept his job a secret, not even at the very start. Hell, they’d met when he crashed through the gallery window where she was working, chasing a drug dealer who was trying to evict the tenants of an apartment building through intimidation. He hadn’t been with SHIELD yet, but Clint had never lied to her about what he was or where he came from. It was one of the things she loved about him the most. Despite his past and fucked up family life, Clint was honest and caring and open with the kids. And he told her everything; no hedging about the danger he daily went into with nothing but a bit of body armor and a bow and arrow.

 

The evening flew by quickly. Cooper’s science project was due in two days, so the dining room table became a poster making station with markers and glue and the old printer chugging out various signs and charts. Lila needed cookies for the bake sale, so three dozen chocolate chip rounds were measured, spooned, cooled, and boxed up. The usual bath time arguments, a chapter of each of The Hobbit and The Time Warp Trio, and by the time Laura cleaned up, packed lunches, marinated tomorrow’s chicken, checked the barn and the chicken coop, it was long past dark. She fell onto their bed, her nightgown wrapping around her legs; her phone vibrated and she her heart jumped when she saw the number.

 

“Hey, you,” she answered. She’d had enough of these calls to recognize the sounds of the quinjet in the background.

 

“Hey,” he said, a heaviness to his voice. “The kids in bed? I think I’ve got the time change right. Hard to tell when I’m crossing time zones so fast.”

 

She knew instantly something had happened; his joking tone was gone, a flat inflection on his words. “All tucked in,” she told him. “Coop’s project is almost finished; just waiting on the glitter to dry.”

 

“Did he go for purple?” Clint asked. No chuckle, no levity -- he was worried and down.

 

“Purple and blue.” She paused. “What’s wrong?”

 

He sucked in a breath then let it out noisily. “Can’t I just call to say hi?”

 

“Of course you can. But you didn’t.” She didn’t give an inch; she knew her husband well. He needed to talk but didn’t want to. “Tell me.”

 

“It’s Nat. He took her, Laura. I couldn’t stay and look for her and I left her.”

 

A punch to her gut every time. It didn’t matter how often they both had come out of worse situations than the one they were in, she still felt every single word like a body blow. “And?”

 

“And? That’s enough, isn’t it? I should have gotten to her, protected her, damn it. This guy is flat out crazy and there’s no telling what he’s likely to do,” Clint protested, emotions flooding loose now.

 

“Excuse me, but aren’t you the one who always says that you feel sorry for anyone who tries to take Natasha down?” Laura rubbed a hand absently across her swollen belly, feeling the baby move restlessly, attuned to her own feelings. “How long has it been?”

 

“Two, two and a half hours,” Clint admitted.

 

“Which means that by now Nat has the bad guy monologuing about his plan, telling her everything. In another hour or two, she’ll have figured out how to get out of wherever he has her and give her  a couple more, you’ll arrive to find she’s already taken everyone out of the picture.” Laura had to smile at that image of Auntie Nat as avenging angel; she knew all too well what Natasha was capable of and how she’d fight to get back to them. Budapest had been hard on all of them.

 

“God, woman,” Clint said, a chuckle finally appearing. “When did you get so smart?”

 

“Always have been. That’s why you married me, remember? One of us needs to be.” She watched the curtain flutter, the cracked window letting in a night breeze. “Now go find my children’s aunt. She’s my back up lamaze coach.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint replied, clicking off.

 

For a long time, Laura lay in bed, a sliver of moonlight shifting across the ceiling of the room, thinking of all the worst outcomes, the possibilities that she only gave a voice to in the middle of the night. To lose Natasha would send Clint into a tailspin,  even more so that Phil’s death. She’d known instantly when Clint had come home after New York that things weren’t right. It was their little ritual, the talk of home improvements. Clint always left something hanging, a project to come back to, promising to finish when he got back from a mission. Then the first thing when he arrived, he’d start talking about the next project before the first one was complete. As if the promise meant he’d have to come back safe and sound, because he had work to do.

 

But those first few days after the Chitauri invasion, Clint had retreated to their room and gone to sleep, barely even registering the children and turning his face to the wall when Laura joined him at night. He’d only spoken of Phil after a week and it took six months before the full story of Loki had tumbled out late one afternoon when they were restringing the barbed wire on the back fence. When he’d decided they needed a sun room, Laura had let the breath she’d been holding go, and she knew he was finally back with them.

 

The baby stretched his leg, his foot pressing against the curve of her stomach, a hard lump in a smooth expanse of skin. “What are you doing in there?” she asked him. “Ballet? That would make your Aunt Nat proud.” He kicked with the other foot, and a ripple crossed her belly. “You like Nat? Sorry, no Natasha for you. Maybe Nate. Or … Nathaniel. That’s it. Little Nate and Auntie Nat.”

 

Nathaniel moved and wiggled then settled down for the night. But Laura only managed to doze off and on, one ear listening for the phone.

 

Morning brought early chores, -- eggs to be gathered, horses to be fed and watered -- wails of “Five more minutes, mom” and a mad rush to catch the school bus at the end of the lane. Lila jumped in mud puddles along the way, leaving brown dots on her Spongebob leggings. Cooper mumbled every word and refused to eat breakfast. But then they were gone and Laura had a long list of things to do for the day, but she broke down and turned on the television to find the battle in Sokovia all over the news. She and Clint had long ago made the pact that the kids should be shielded from as much as possible until they were old enough to not get scared by the violent images; not hiding things from them, that was impossible, but making sure what they did see was appropriate for their ages. Cooper already had nightmares about his dad not coming home, and for long months after New York, Lila would wake screaming that the skeleton men were coming to get her thanks to a friend whose parents turned on raw footage in their home.

 

But she could never help checking for even the briefest glimpse of her husband. Replays of shaky camera phone videos showed the evacuation of the city, robots swarming over the streets as whole families ran for safety. A shot of Captain America on a shattered bridge, the Hulk slamming a robot into a building, Iron Man whizzing overhead, Thor’s hammer zipping across a screen. A quick glimpse of a man with a quiver on his back helping a woman over the rubble. Then there were  the live shots from circling news helicopters, a constant feed of a city floating upwards and lots of talking, an avalanche of words that assailed her ears.

 

“The Avengers are in the city along with several hundred civilians …”

“... Selvig, a well-known scientist, will be up next …”

“… Castle was home to a faction of HYDRA that the Avengers hit …”

“... death toll is rising and emergency agencies are gearing up to help …”

“... higher it goes, the more devastation it will cause when it falls …”

“... only way anyone is getting off that rock is if they can fly …”

 

Turning off the TV lasted for the time it took to take a shower and dress; she had to know, even if it was bad. By 10 a.m., she broke her promise to to watch her sugar intake and poured a glass of lemonade. Then she busied herself with minor tasks; she cleaned out the junk drawer, reorganized the laundry shelf, and checked the expiration date of everything in the pantry, one eye on the screen.

 

They’d prepared, of course, as well as anyone could, for Clint to not come home. Wills and funeral arrangements and pension plans and trusts. A number to send a message to Barney, and enough money to pay off the mortgage and send the kids to college. They’d talked about wakes and moving on and how Laura would move on with her life, meet someone else, fall in love, and remarry if she wanted. How Clint wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread from the helicarrier over the ocean.

 

But none of that mattered when Nick showing up at her door became a real possibility. People died; if anyone was going to live to a ripe old age, it was Phil Coulson, a solid, dependable guy who always brought the kids comic books when he came. And yet he’d been gone in a few minutes, high above New York City, saving the world. Just like Clint was doing now.

 

“... and gentlemen, it’s an amazing sight to see! A helicarrier has just appeared through the clouds and is launching transports. Oh, my God, the robots are attacking the carrier now …”

She tuned back in, leaning over the counter to get a better view of the screen. The 24-hour news channel had switched to what was obviously pool footage coming from a satellite. The reporter on the ground continued talking as the images played out.

 

“...War Machine is engaging the robots, Wolf.  He’s protecting the transports so they can evacuate the city. We’re switching to the Air Force’s feed to get a closer look.”

 

Her stomach dropped as the picture became grainy; a stream of people ran across an open area, little dots of humanity making their way to the transports. She couldn’t make out any distinguishing features, but she didn’t need to. He’d be the that black dot staying behind, criss-crossing the area to protect the civilians.

 

“... don’t know who that purple hero with the yellow cape is yet.”

 

The picture cut back to earlier footage of a man Laura had never seen, tall, slim, and covered in a suit.

 

“... fast blur or the woman in red …”

 

More quick cuts to show a dark haired girl who looked to be in her late teens or early twenties then a blur of blue that came to a stop and became a blue clad young man with hair so blonde it was almost white.

 

“... loaded and away. Repeat, the transports are safely landing on the carrier and they are moving out of range. Iron Man is still aloft and ... “

 

A loud boom and the reporter’s voice shook as the city high above exploded into tiny pieces, expanding across the sky.

 

“Oh my God, are you seeing this? From here, it looks like fireworks. The bits of the city are starting to burn on re-entry. We don’t know if there was anyone left up there … Wait, I can see Iron Man and Thor. They’re smashing any piece of rubble that’s big enough to cause a problem.”

 

Laura flipped off the TV and sank down on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Her hands trembled as she drained the last of the lemonade. Nathaniel picked that moment to turn and shove his feet up under her ribs, one of his favorite positions lately. Taking long deep breaths, she calmed herself, slowing her heartbeat and relaxing her shoulders. Nothing could take away the fear of not knowing, but she had a baby to think about and stress could bring on early labor.

 

Her phone vibrated; for a second, she was afraid to look at it, sure the news was bad. But she had to face it, no matter what was there. She swiped her phone and touched the text icon. A picture popped up; Clint, laying across a row of seats, his face smudged and dirty, blood on his vest, and his middle finger held up for the camera.

 

*His lack of faith is disturbing* the text read. *You were right*

 

A small sob escaped before the slightly hysterical laugh.

 

*That was never in doubt* she replied.

 

She was alone; no one would see if she gave in to her emotions. The kids wouldn’t be home until 2:45; that was plenty of time. Instead of crying, she got up and started rummaging in the pantry. Clint would be hungry when he got home.  

 

He called her forty five minutes later; she’d already put a second pan of brownies in the oven and had the greens cleaned for a salad.  

 

“Hey. Not a lot of time. Just wanted to say I love you.”

 

“I love you too. Now get your ass home. Cooper wants to do the soapbox derby this year. That’s your area,”  she told him.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said before he hung up.

 

Something bad had happened; he hadn’t mentioned the house once. She decided to prepare a pan of lasagne and a add some of Clint’s favorite lemon cookies to her to-do list.

 

Two days later, she was putting away a basket full of eggs when she saw the quinjet come in for landing. Taking out a tray, she arranged some cookies for the table and started a pot of coffee. Keeping busy hid her nerves as she waited.

 

“Honey?” Clint stood in the doorway. He had a grey henley and jeans on and bruises on his face. “Um, I sort of brought some guests. Again.”

 

“Well, don’t keep them standing on the porch.” She wiped her hands on a dishrag and went into Clint’s arms. She squeezed him tight and he wheezed. “You hurt your ribs?”

 

“Opened that same wound, that’s all.” He always downplayed his pain; she’d check for herself tonight when he came to bed. “Laura, this is Wanda.” He motioned the young brunette in red from the videos inside. “And her brother, Pietro.” The tall blonde entered slowly; she could see bandages peeking above the v-neck of his t-shirt. “Maximoffs, this is my wife, Laura.”

 

“He did not tell you we were coming,” Wanda said, helping her brother over to the couch. “We do not have to stay.”

 

“Of course you can stay.” She knew that look in Clint’s eyes; it was the same one he had the day he brought a stray dog home … and dragged Natasha to the farm for the first time. “I have fresh strawberry lemonade. Sit, relax, and I’ll get you some.”

 

“You should make the old man do it,” Pietro said, his accent thick. “Do not make your pregnant wife carry things.”

 

“Remember, kid, nobody knows you’re alive. I could make the rumors true,” Clint shot back with a grin.

 

He followed her into the kitchen and reached up for the glasses as she got out the pitcher, put it with the cookies on a tray.

 

“He saved my life,” Clint said in a low voice. “And almost died. They have no where else to go.”

 

“Then they’re welcome in our home.” She smiled and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “I know you, Clint Barton. Your daddy instincts are engaged.”

 

Picking up the tray, he led the way back into the living room. “You know,” he said as he passed the door to the dining room. “I’m thinking about taking this wall down and making you a work area. We never use the formal table anyway.”

 

“Sunroom floor first,” she told her husband.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a smile.

 

 


End file.
